


Eternal Garden

by NotAGhost3



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Depictions of grief, E/C, Halloween, Halloween story, Mystery, One Shot, Post-Canon, Suspense, but kinda not, ghost au, twilight zone inspired wooooo, twist - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:14:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27304675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAGhost3/pseuds/NotAGhost3
Summary: "Another option came to mind, only aided by the growing mist that greeted them on their journey. He knew it to be foolish though, having quite the personal experience pretending to be one himself: Ghosts."Ghost AU. Halloween one-shot for 13 Nights of POTO Halloween over on tumblr!
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Eternal Garden

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween!

She was there again. This girl. 

It was not the first time Erik had seen her.

She always came at the same time. Never late, never early and always in the same dark mourning attire. 

And she was in his garden.

Well, not _his_ garden. It belonged to that blasted Daroga. He’d gone off again on some trip claiming it was for business (Erik had other suspicions, Nadir did not usually pack _cologne_ for his trips), leaving Erik to tend to his quaint home, far above his _own_ safe dwellings five cellars below.

His _preferred_ dwellings. 

But he was here, in the old man’s house with nothing but his violin to entertain him.

He took another look through the carefully drawn drapes, careful not to make his peering too obvious to the young girl knelt in Nadir’s dirt, clipping herself a few of his roses. Nadir would be quite upset at the missing flowers upon his return…Erik smirked in his own amusement at the thought. Perhaps he’d tell him that he had an enchanted rose bush, cursed so that the flowers would disappear at night or that it was _gnomes_ coming to steal his shrubbery. Yes, he’d have quite the fit when he returned—

Her eyes met his through the pane of the window.

Even in the darkness he could see how they shone with yet to be shed tears.

His smirk fell.

But the girl simply disregarded him and continued picking off the flowers, bundling them into her hand.

He wasn’t aware that he had reached for his hat and cloak until the cold autumn wind blew against his neck as he closed Nadir’s back door, rounding the corner to his garden. It hadn’t been his intention to talk anymore than it had been his intention to come out here in the first place, but this was the fourth night in a row, and she really was the most interesting thing he had encountered his entire stay.

“Can I help you?” He whispered, voice low as he watched the wind gently blow the girl’s hair into her face, blonde curls glinting under the moonlight from above.

She didn’t seem to hear him. 

He pursed his lips, daring himself to venture closer.

“Half past three in the morning is hardly an appropriate time for gardening, don’t you think?” He said, stopping a few paces away from her. If this were anyone else he would have forgo-edhis mask and simply scared them away, but he didn’t want to scare her away, this innocent creature, so peacefully stealing his beloved foe’s flowers.

She clipped one more to add to her bundle before she stood, eyes not quite meeting his.

He stood firm, lifting his chin to look down at this girl— _woman_ , he realized as he saw the length and bustle of her dress — as she stared back at him.

But still she did not answer him, instead walking past him toward the gate, her dress trailing behind her.

He shouldn’t follow.

He shouldn’t.

But he did.

He was hardly a reasonable man, but he had to admit, following young women in the middle of the night simply because they wouldn’t say anything back was a bit of a stretch for even him. Curiosity was getting to him in his old age. With a squint and quick glance back at the house, he followed after her.

She never looked back at him, always ahead, roses clutched tightly in her fist. It shouldn’t bother him; her ignoring him. It certainly wasn’t the worst thing anyone had ever done in response to him, to be quite truthful it was one of the better reactions. 

But the question of why he was following her in the first place still nagged at the back of his mind- _why_?

She wasn’t interesting by nature, plain looking with fair skin and fair eyes and fair hair…nothing to make her stand out except the fact that she had been foraging flowers in the middle of the night…there was something about her though that seemed… _familiar_. 

Perhaps familiar wasn’t the word he was looking for. 

He continued after her anyway

“I suppose this is a routine of yours?” He asked, now walking side by side with her.

She stared ahead, eyes empty and bleak except for a tear that now rolled down her cheek, melting into the fabric of her bodice.

It was as if she could not see him at all.

Now _that_ was a new reaction. 

He paused in his steps, only for a moment to see if she would stop too, but when she continued on so did he, anxious now to see where she was going to. His mind wandered to other possible explanations, an excuse for this woman’s odd behavior. There was of course, the chance that he was dreaming, he had been quite comfortable in the old Daroga’s sitting chair as he stared out the window, it wouldn’t be too far off to assume he had fallen asleep.

But if this was a dream, why would he be questioning it? Dreams were just that: dreams. 

Another option came to mind, only aided by the growing mist that greeted them on their journey. He knew it to be foolish though, having quite the personal experience _pretending_ to be one himself—

Spectres. Apparitions. Spirits. _Phantoms_.

Ghosts.

It would of course be just his luck to encounter a real one—

Oh, now he was being full of himself. He had lived in the cellar long enough to know that ghosts were no more real than his nose.

Yet…

He shook the thought from his mind. This girl must be mute. Or deaf…or blind…or _both_ …

The dream option seemed more and more plausible with each passing moment. 

But he could feel the ground beneath his feet, he could see the night sky, he could hear the wind whistling past.

Not even his nightmares were this convincing.

He stopped again as the girl pushed open the gates of the cemetery, steel hinges squealing against the pressure. 

He swallowed, willing it all to be a nightmare.

Still he followed her footsteps, her eyes ever steady on the path before her, doing his best to ignore the way his chest felt heavy, or the way his hands now trembled, clutching the sides of his own cloak close to him.

She continued steadily on.

He had heard his fair share of ghost stories in his travels, so many and so often that he was able to convincingly create his own but this sinking feeling that ran through his body— this chill he was unable to _shake—_

This was a dream and he had imagined the girl in the first place and in reality he was five cellars below, happily dozing in his living area on the sofa…that was it, that was where he was, where he had to be.

The girl stopped, a sob wracking through her body before falling to her knees in front of the slab of simple stone. A sob— she had made a noise! The first he had heard all night from her! Of course she wasn’t a…a ghost. She had made a sound and now she was crying and that was proof enough that this girl was obviously ignoring his attempts to make conversation or that once again it was a dream. 

She was crying…

Why did his heart lurch at the thought?  


He did not know this girl, but something in him felt as though he did. But he was not one to make friends, much less friends of the opposite sex so that was unlikely.

She let out another sob, hand going to trace the name upon the grave.

He crept closer, leering over her to see who it was she mourned at such an absurd hour.

But her hand swept over the name, blocking him from seeing it.

He blinked, the sinking feeling returning, anchoring him to the ground he stood on.

“Mademoiselle Daaé!”

The girl turned, as shocked as he that there was another person in the cemetery, flowers dropping on the grave.

But he did not turn.

He knew that voice.

_No_.

It could not be…he was out on business…on business…

Yet it was.

“Oh, Monsieur Kahn, I did not expect you,” the girl whispered back, standing to her feet.

Erik’s eyes widened. 

_What_ was going on?

“Daroga?” Erik called out, confusion lacing his tone.

But he ignored him too, as if…as if he couldn’t hear him either…

Erik swallowed, his trembling now uncontrollable, eyes racing from this Daaé girl to the headstone to the old Daroga himself—

“I told you not to return here, that you were to get upon that boat and never look back.”

Erik huffed. “Daroga you are being an utter embarrassment, what do you speak of?”

But he ignored him again.

“I am aware, but Raoul had lose ends to tie up here, and well…I…I promised him, I promised I would come…”

Raoul? Why did he know that name? Why did the Daroga know this girl? He watched as Nadir grabbed the girl by her shoulder, directing her gaze into his.

“ _Christine_ —”

Christine Daaé.

The walls of his world came tumbling down, all in that very instance. Flashes filled his vision, flashes of blonde curls and happy smiles…of nooses and organ keys…of mirrors and fire and water…so much water….

His ears were pounding, his breath hitching in the back of his throat— what was wrong with him?

He forced his eyes open.

Christine. 

_His_ Christine.

“A dead man holds no promises, you are free…free to leave. He is gone, there is nothing more you can do.”

The girl — Christine, how could he have not realized — closed her eyes and began to weep again, but it was different this time.

He wept with her, knowing the source of her tears.

“I promised him two weeks, two weeks….he only got…only…” but her voice trailed off, drowned by her sobs as that wretched Daroga collected her into his arms.

Why couldn’t they see him?

He was not gone he was right there! Right in front of them…

He blinked, realizing that perhaps he was the one who had come to the conclusion last, far later than those around him.

That was his grave…her tears, their tears, were for him…those flowers were for…him…

He was dead.

He stumbled backwards as he watched Nadir usher her back down the path that led out of the cemetery, flowers left neatly at the base of the grave as his eyes trailed up toward the engraving:

ERIK IS DEAD.

He shook his head, unable to accept it as truth. He fell to his knees before it, grasping at the flowers and shutting his eyes tight. This was a dream, a dream, a dream! He was not dead, he was housesitting for Christ sake, he couldn’t be dead, he couldn’t be….he squeezed his eyelids tighter, the thorns of the roses breaking the skin of his hand, but no blood came to the surface…no, no, no…a dream…a dream! He begged again, his lips moving wordlessly as he lashed out on the gravestone in front of him that taunted him with death, with undeniable defeat—

He opened his eyes.

She was there again. This _girl_. 

It was not the first time Erik had seen her.

She always came at the same time. Never late, never early and always in the same dark mourning attire. 

And she was in his garden.


End file.
